


All That's Best of Dark and Bright

by BreTheWriter



Series: Jim and Bones: The Academy Years [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Gen, M/M, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreTheWriter/pseuds/BreTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones doesn't know what he'll do if Jim doesn't come home safely from this survival course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That's Best of Dark and Bright

_Forty-two days remaining._

"You sure you got everything?" 

"I'm sure." 

"Want me to double-check for you?" 

"No, I'm good." 

"I just wouldn't want you to forget anything." 

"I didn't forget anything." 

"Are you sure that--" 

" _Bones!_ " Jim cuts me off. "I'm not allowed to _take_ anything." 

That stops me. "What?" 

"It's a survival class," he reminds me. "We're supposed to be acting like we're stranded on a planet. All we'll have with us is the standard equipment we'd take on an away mission. No spare clothes, no toiletries, no nothing. Just a tricorder, a communicator, a phaser, and...well, whatever we ordinarily carry in our pockets." 

"You can fit a lot in your pockets." I know Jim well enough to know that he tends to bend the rules to suit himself. I figure he'll sneak _something_. 

But to my surprise, he shakes his head. "Not this time. I really wanna do this one right. I mean...when I'm commanding my own starship, I'm not exactly gonna walk around with a spare pair of underwear in my pocket all the time." 

Not _if_ , I note. _When_. No lack of confidence in Jim Kirk. "I was thinking of water. Food. Something like that." 

"I can't. They'll be frisking us. I can get away with a couple of little things that I usually have with me, things that probably won't make a huge difference, one way or another. But I can't smuggle a water canteen or a packet of trail mix or anything like that." 

I don't like it. There's no denying it. I know Jim's tough. He's told me a little bit of what he went through as a kid, and I'm his primary physician, so I've seen his medical records, I know what he's survived before. But the fact is that when he went through that stuff, I didn't know him. I do now. 

My feelings must show on my face, because his voice softens. "I'll be all right, Bones. Trust me." 

"You know, the last time you said that, I ended up patching you up in the bathroom of the seediest bar in San Francisco," I observe. 

He laughs. "But I was all right in the end." 

"Yeah. Because I was there." 

That sobers him up pretty quickly. He reaches out and takes both my hands in his. "I'd bring you if I could," he says seriously. "But you've got your work this summer, your research. And you don't need to take this class anyway." 

I raise an eyebrow. "Why? Because you don't think I'm ever likely to get stranded on a planet?" 

"No. Because you're going to be my CMO. And any away mission you go on, I'll be going with you." He gives me a winning smile. "So I'll be able to handle all the survival stuff, like building a hut and finding food and water and getting us the hell _out_ of there, and you can focus on things like making sure we don't pick up xenobiotic plagues or lose our feet from frostbite or whatever." 

I laugh in spite of myself. "Confident little bastard, aren't you?" 

"Hey, whatever works," he says, laughing too. He lets go of my hands. "I'd better go if I'm gonna catch that shuttle." 

"I'll walk with you," I tell him. 

"You don't have to." 

"Yeah, but I want to. And I'm going to." 

He shrugs, as if it doesn't matter, but I see the momentary flash of relief in his eyes. 

We walk to the shuttle stop in silence. There are a dozen cadets in all going on this survival class, four gals and eight guys counting Jim. Some look nervous, some look confident, some look bored. Jim's somewhere in between all three. 

I put a hand on his shoulder. "Jim...you be careful out there, you hear me?" 

One of the guys nearby snorts. "'Course he'll be careful," he grunts. "The worse shape we're in when we get back, the more points we lose. I don't think any of us wanna fail." 

Jim shoots the guy a glare, then pulls me to one side. In a low voice, he says, "It's not just about the grade, Bones. Not for me. I promise I'll be careful." 

I bite my lip, suddenly unaccountably nervous. "You'd better be." 

"I will. And I'll be back in six weeks." Jim looks up at me--not far, he's not much shorter than I am. "Meet you here?" 

"I'll be waiting for you," I promise. " _If_ you're not back sooner, that is." 

Jim laughs and claps me on the shoulder. "See you when I get back, Bones." 

"See you." I smile and let him get on the shuttle and watch it take off. 

But even after it's gone, I'm still standing there, alone for the first time in two years, staring at the last spot where I saw it and trying not to feel like I've just lost my best friend. 

* * *

_Twenty days remaining._

I spend all night in the lab swearing at one of my samples, which isn't behaving the way it ought to behave, and when Ichaan, my research partner, comes in, he seems surprised to see me. "Leo," he says. "You must have gotten up early this morning." 

"Morning?" I repeat, a little stupidly. "What time is it?" 

"Just gone nine o'clock." 

"Damn." I glance at my watch, and sure enough, it is. "Thought it was earlier than that." 

Ichaan frowns. He's a Rhaandarite, not usually known for giving orders, and most of the ones who work for Starfleet are considered "slow learners," but I guess he must be the exception that proves the rule. "Have you been here all night?" 

I nod. "Since about six last night." 

"You'd better go get something to eat, and at least take a nap. I'll monitor the samples for a while. Come back around four." 

I consider giving him a mocking salute and a sarcastic comment, but suddenly the fact that I haven't slept in twenty-six hours catches up with me. "Okay. See you later, Ich." 

I make it to the cafeteria and sit nodding off over a bowl of grits, or what the cafeteria claims is grits. I've just decided to give up and go get some sleep when I hear the words "survival class" from the table next to mine. My head jerks up, and I turn to look. 

It's a couple of big, muscle-bound guys, probably cadets in their final year, trying to impress a few young, innocent-looking girls with their exploits. One of the guys has his sleeve rolled all the way up and is showing the girls something on his arm. "Gator tried to eat my phaser. I had to pull it out of his throat." 

"No alligators in the desert," points out one of the others. 

"Lucky me, I landed the Amazon." 

"Well, I got the desert, and let me tell you, heat stroke is no fun. Still can't believe they expected us to survive with no water! If I were beaming down to a desert planet, even just for a coupla hours, I'd sure as hell bring _water_." 

"You know what really sucks? Siberia," says a third. "Look." He holds out his hand. I can see from where I'm sitting that he's missing two fingers. "Frostbite. Realized I wasn't gonna make it back to civilization in time for 'em to save them, and if I did, it might've spread, so I cut 'em off with a rock." 

"Ooh, how brave!" coos one of the girls. 

The guy gives her a devil-may-care grin. I want to hit him. "All in a day's work." 

The guy with the gator scars notices me watching. "What are you staring at?" 

_A bunch of puffed-up windbags,_ I think but don't say. "Sorry. Heard you talking about the survival class and...I thought you might've been talking about the one that set out a couple weeks ago." 

"Oh, yeah, the new bunch," says the guy who got heat stroke. "You know, three people came back already." 

"Really?" I try to sound casual, but my heart is suddenly racing and I don't know why. 

"Yeah," says the guy with the missing fingers. "Two of the girls came back after a week. You know, they give you the communicators, and they're fully functional, it's just that the ship's supposed to be out of range or something like that. Anyway, these two girls, they found each other through their comms and were trying to work together, but they just couldn't cut it. Screamed into their communicators for someone to come and rescue them, sobbing they couldn't do it anymore, they wanted to go home. So the practice ship picked 'em up. They packed their bags and left the Academy the next day, so I hear." 

"What about the third one?" I ask. 

"Oh, _him_ ," says Heat Stroke. "Yeah, medical discharge from the class. Tiger ripped his leg off." 

I stare. " _What?_ " 

"That's what I heard. They've got him in the hospital right now, hopped up on all kinds of stuff. Don't know if they're gonna fit him with something so he can continue serving in Starfleet or not, or even if he'd want to." 

"Do you know his name?" 

"Didn't ask." 

Suddenly I'm not tired anymore. 

I finish my grits, ditch my dishes, and head over to the hospital wing, my heart pounding. The problem with being a doctor is you know all the things that can go wrong, medically speaking. The problem with having a friend in a danger zone is suddenly it's not academic anymore. 

It's my lucky day. The nurse on duty is one I know--Christine Chapel, hardworking and efficient but with a good bedside manner. She sort of smiles when she sees me. "Dr. McCoy, good to see you. Are you on shift today?" 

"No, my research project, remember?" 

"Oh, yes. Then what can I do for you? Need more supplies?" 

I shake my head. "I just had a quick question. I, uh, heard one of the members of the survival class came back last night..." 

Nurse Chapel's expression changes to one of understanding. "Ah, that explains a lot," she says softly. "No, it isn't Jim." 

I relax for the first time in a while. "You're sure?" 

"Not unless he somehow figured out how to drastically change his appearance." She points to the room nearest her. "See for yourself." 

I open the door and look in. Lying on the bed is a big, muscle-bound man of definitely African ancestry, his eyes closed. I recognize the cadet who pointed out that they would lose points for coming back in poor shape. Fleetingly, I wonder how low his grade is going to be for losing a leg. 

Closing the door, I take a deep breath. "Thanks, Christine. That's a load off my mind." 

Nurse Chapel smiles again. "How about you get some rest then? You look like you haven't slept in a day and a half." 

"What a coincidence." I laugh and head off to take a nap. 

* * *

_Five days remaining._

The first sign that anything might be wrong comes when Admiral Hackett walks into the lab. 

Don't get me wrong. I like Hackett, and he likes me. We're from the same part of Georgia--he actually played football against my dad in high school--and he stops by occasionally to chat. But he's the head of the Command department, and therefore never comes into the medical wing, especially not the lab. And _especially_ not with an expression of concern on his face. 

"McCoy," he greets me. "Have you heard from Cadet Kirk lately?" 

I look up from my notebook, where I'm jotting down the last of my notes on one of the samples. Ichaan and I ought to be done with our research and ready to present it by the end of the week. "He's on that survival course. I thought they weren't supposed to try to establish communications with anyone outside the class." 

"They're not. But...well, you know how Kirk is with the rules sometimes." Hackett tries to smile. "I just thought...maybe he'd been in touch with you?" 

"No," I say slowly. "I haven't heard from him since I saw him off on the shuttle five weeks ago." Five weeks, two days, eight hours, and thirteen minutes, to be precise. Not that I'm counting or anything. 

"Damn. I was hoping..." Hackett shakes his head. 

A knot begins forming in the pit of my stomach. "Is something wrong,?" 

Hackett hesitates. "Maybe it's nothing. But the monitor ship lost contact with him sometime yesterday. He was in the middle of sending up one of the regular distress calls, and it just...cut out. Could be he hit a dead patch. Could be his power pack ran flat. Could be an issue with the ship, which is why I asked if he'd tried to bend the rules and contact you." 

"He hasn't," I say again. "But if he does, I'll let you know." 

"You do that." Hackett studies me. "What are you working on in here, anyway?" 

" _Synthococca novae_ ," I answer absently. 

Hackett takes a wary step backwards. "Uh, that's pretty dangerous, isn't it?" 

_No more dangerous than being dumped in a desert without water,_ I want to say, but I don't. Instead, I look up. "Don't worry, all our samples are well contained. Anyway, we think we've got a cure." 

"Seriously?" Hackett looks fascinated. "When will you know for sure?" 

I check the numbers on the sample I've just run. "Four more days." 

Hackett nods, and suddenly he looks serious again. "Let's hope we all get some good news about then." 

"Yeah," I say, thinking of Jim, wherever he is. "Let's hope." 

* * *

_One day remaining._

All our lab animals die, and Jim doesn't contact anyone. 

Ichaan and I have a vaccine for _synthococca novae_ , not a cure, which we figure is better than nothing. I write the summing-up while he cleans up the lab. The whole time, I have my communicator on the desk in front of me, and I glance up every so often, willing it to flash. 

It doesn't. 

Nothing from Hackett telling me Jim's made contact again. Nothing from Nurse Chapel telling me he's in the hospital wing with or without all the body parts he left with. Nothing from the instructor telling me as his point of contact that I need to authorize any medical procedures. 

Nothing from Jim himself telling me he's alive. 

I finish up my research and I help Ichaan finish cleaning and I eat dinner and I go to bed, and the whole time I tell myself that Jim's fine, that there's still one more day left in the challenge, that he'll be back tomorrow. But I don't believe myself. Not for a minute. 

* * *

_Twelve hours overdue._

I show up at the shuttle launch pad before the sun's even up with two large coffees from Brewsky's and a half-dozen bagels, and I wait. My stomach is growling, but I don't so much as open the bag to have a sniff. 

The shuttle is due back at eight. 

At nine, I've finished my coffee. 

At ten, I cave and start nibbling on a bagel. 

At noon, I've eaten all three of mine. 

At four, I start drinking the other coffee. 

At six-thirty, I crumple the now-empty bag and stuff it in the trash can. 

At eight, twelve hours after it was supposed to come in, the shuttle finally touches down. I smile and prepare to bitch Jim out for being late, then figure I'll take him out for Chinese or something, he must be starving. 

The shuttle door opens and seven people tumble out. None of them are exactly chipper. Two of the guys are supporting a third. One of the girls has her arm in a sling. The other has a nasty-looking burn on her face. Most of the guys have dark circles under their eyes. 

The instructor steps out and sees me. His mouth sets in a thin line. Turning back to the class, he says, "All of you, report to the hospital wing to have yourselves checked and your forms filled out." 

They go without protest. He comes over to me and says, "Dr. McCoy?" 

"Yes," I say, scanning the seven walking away, just in case I somehow made a mistake, but I didn't. Jim isn't among them. 

"We still have two cadets missing," the instructor says. "Fleming and Kirk were both beamed to the same region. It's likely that wherever they are, they're together." 

I bite my lip, not wanting to ask what region it was, since I won't like the answer, whatever it is. "You can't get in contact with them?" 

"No. But they've got another week." 

"Then what happens?" I ask in spite of myself. 

"You're Kirk's point of contact?" 

"Yes." 

The instructor gives me a pitying look. "If we can't locate them within seven days, they'll be listed as missing, presumed dead." 

I swallow, hard. "Keep me posted. _Please._ He's my best friend, I..." 

"You'll be notified if there is anything to be notified of," the instructor says stolidly. He turns and gets back on the shuttle. 

I can't bear to watch it leave this time. 

* * *

_Twenty-seven hours overdue._

I have to go into the hospital wing to help out with treating the survival class. Most of them are just in varying states of malnutrition, but one of the guys is suffering from hypothermia and another seems to have picked up some sort of viral infection from drinking out of a stagnant pool of water in the Amazon River basin. 

As I pass one room, a voice from within calls, "Hey, Doc?" 

I enter the room and find the guy whose leg got bitten off by a tiger, sitting up and watching me. I'm a little surprised he's still there, especially since his numbers look good. "How are you feeling?" 

"All right. They'll be fitting me for my new leg tomorrow," he says, ending my confusion. "I'm gonna keep going." 

"Good." I smile, or try to. 

He clears his throat. "How's--uh--how's Kirk doing?" 

I swallow, hard, before I answer. "He's not back yet." 

The guy looks worried. "What do you mean he's not back yet? Hasn't it been six weeks?" 

"Yeah. Everyone else came back yesterday. He and one other cadet are still out there." 

The guy goes silent for a moment. Softly, he says, "He saved my life, you know." 

I blink. "So he was--he's in the same area you were?" 

"No, no," he says quickly. "Least I don't think so. He got dropped off first. But he's the reason I didn't bleed to death before they got me out of there, just the same." He gestures to the stump of his leg. "On the shuttle, on the way up, he sat next to me and started talking, just nonsense, I thought. Pulled out a strip of cloth from one of his pockets and started muttering about knots and tension and all that. I asked him what he was saying and he said he was trying to remember what you'd told him about tourniquets, and he told me all about them and explained how to tie one. When that tiger tore my leg off...all I could think of at first was the pain, it was like my whole world was full of blood. And then I heard his voice giving me instructions." He looks up at me. "I swear, Doc, that's what brought me back from the edge. That's what saved me." 

There's a lump in my throat. I don't tell this kid that Jim never asked me about tourniquets, that I'd never said a word about them, that I in fact would never have done so because of the associated risks, especially of makeshift tourniquets. "I'm just glad you're okay." 

"Yeah, me too," the guy says. He swallows. "Hey, when he gets back--tell him to come see me, will ya? I wanna say thank you in person." 

"You got it." I smile and go back to my work and try to hold onto the word _when_ and not turn it into _if_.

* * *

_Fifty-two hours overdue._

Ichaan and I present our findings to the medical review board. They seem suitably impressed, although one of the medicos comments about my pallor and slight lack of attentiveness. We will find out within a week what the result is--whether or not our vaccine will be implemented, whether or not we'll pass the course we're technically doing this work for. Ichaan is worried. I can't bring myself to care.

Hackett's waiting for me when we get out of the review. He suggests I join him for a bite to eat. We sit in a corner booth at an Italian restaurant and pick at our food and tell one another not to worry and then proceed to do exactly that.

* * *

_Eighty-eight hours overdue._

I wake up suddenly in the middle of the night, thinking I hear my door slide open. Jim sometimes slips in at night, when he's upset or hurt or lonely. Quickly, I sit up and look around eagerly. 

Nothing. The room is silent and empty. I must be hearing things. Jim's not there. _Jim's not there_. My bed suddenly feels empty and lonely and cold. 

I bury my face in my pillow and burst into tears. I can't help it. I'm terrified-- _terrified_. God only knows where Jim is. If he's hurt or sick or dying or--God forbid--dead already. I don't know. And that scares the hell out of me. He's the most important person in the world--in the universe--to me. I haven't felt like this since my marriage went south... 

_No, it can't be_. Jim's my best friend, that's all. I don't--he doesn't--we're not--it's not like that. It can't be. 

Except it is. 

For the first time, I recognize what my heart's been trying to tell me for more than a year. Maybe it wasn't love at first sight, but somewhere along the line, I've fallen in love with my best friend. I love Jim. More than I ever dreamed possible. 

He doesn't feel the same way about me, I'm sure. I've watched him flirt and fuck around with just about every girl at the Academy over the last few years. No way he's in love with me. No way he could _ever_ be in love with me, even if he _was_ gay. I'm too old, too crotchety, too broken. And I'm not a love-'em-and-leave-'em type. I don't do casual. I'm in it for the long haul. Not Jim's style. 

But still. _I_ love _him_. Even if he doesn't reciprocate, even if he never feels the same way about me, I love him. I love him and I can't live without him. 

And the idea of trying to do it scares the hell out of me. 

* * *

_One hundred and two hours overdue._

The guy whose leg got ripped off is named Jackson Fisher. He's a geologist. He chose to take the survival course because he figures, once he gets posted to a starship, if he has to study the geology of a planet he runs the risk of getting trapped, and he'd better know how to handle himself. 

I learn all this as I help him learn to walk again. I'm his primary now. He's in much better shape than the other members of his course. I tell him that while he takes a quick breather. 

Fisher laughs bitterly. "Funny old universe, isn't it? I come back three weeks early with half a leg missing, and I'm the lucky one." 

"Yeah," I agree, trying to smile. 

"Still no word from Kirk?" he asks. 

"No. Still no word."

* * *

_One hundred and thirty-one hours overdue._

There's a shouting match going on that can be heard over halfway across the campus, and it ends with one man slinking off in disgrace and two men glaring after him, beet red with anger, and the people who know tell the people who don't that the instructor won't be teaching at the Academy anymore. Injuries are normal, but there are supposed to be controls in place to make sure that all cadets come back safely. They've never had more than one cadet missing at a time, and never for more than a day or two. 

I come off my shift in the hospital wing and almost run into Hackett, talking with an older man I recognize as Christopher Pike. Pike looks at me in surprise, but Hackett says quietly, "McCoy." 

"Any word?" I ask. 

Hackett shakes his head. "None." 

My shoulders slump. Pike notices and his expression changes. Wordlessly, he holds out his arms, and I don't even think twice about letting him hug me, or hugging him back, because we're the only two people in the goddamned universe who _really_ care about Jim Kirk, and I know he's just as scared as I am.

* * *

_One hundred and fifty hours overdue._

Nurse Chapel threatens to hypo my ass and tie it to a bed if I don't get some sleep.

Hackett threatens to stuff a feeding tube into my stomach if I don't eat something.

Pike takes one look at my face and tells both of them to shut up.

* * *

_One hundred and sixty-eight hours overdue._

Ichaan tells me the medical review board is going to publish our findings, that the vaccine we invented is going to be standard issue within a year, that we passed our class. I can't bring myself to care. I wonder if I'll ever be able to care about anything again.

I don't know if the seven-days thing is still valid, since the instructor's gone, but I know I can't hold out hope any longer. Jim is gone. I let him get on that shuttle forty-nine days ago and now he's gone.

And I don't know how I'm going to make it without him.

* * *

_One hundred and seventy-three hours overdue._

Fisher doesn't want to do his exercises today. He says his heart isn't in it. I don't push him, since to tell the truth, mine isn't, either. Instead, we sit in his room while I check his vitals and we talk. Mostly we talk about Jim. He's heard stories--who hasn't?--but he wants to know what Jim is--was-- _really_ like. So even though it hurts, I tell him about the way we met, and he laughs even though it obviously hurts him, too. 

There's a commotion in the hallway, and then I hear a voice shout. "McCoy!" 

I excuse myself to Fisher and duck out of the room. Phlox, the head doctor of the Academy's hospital wing, is running behind a stretcher and waving his arms at a bunch of nurses. The other doctor on shift, Grimethorpe, follows the crowd. Not sure what's going on, I join them. 

Before I go in, though, Phlox notices me and points to the room next door. "Get him! We've got this one! Chapel, McCall, go with McCoy!" 

I don't ask questions. Obviously there's an emergency going on. No time for questions. Besides, maybe the rush will help me keep my mind off of my own problems. I nod to my two nurses and go the room--and stop dead. 

Lying on the bed, breathing shallowly, is a figure I'd given up hope of ever seeing again. He's sunburnt, his lips are cracked, and he's got a scruffy seven-week beard, but it's still _him_. 

It's Jim. 

Behind me, Nurse Chapel gives a little shriek and Nurse McCall gasps. The sound recalls me to my senses. Jim is lying on a hospital bed, and considering how still he is, I'm guessing it's not just because he misses me. He needs our help. _My_ help. 

"Christine, vitals!" I snap, grabbing a surgical tunic and throwing it on. "And get me a diagnostic, now!" 

Nurse McCall scrambles for the diagnostic machine while Nurse Chapel fumbles for Jim's pulse. We can do it electronically with the diagnostic, of course, but when you're in a hurry you can't beat the old ways. By the time Nurse McCall comes back with the diagnostic machine and I'm scrubbed up, Nurse Chapel is saying, "Pulse is one-twenty and very faint, respiration fifteen." 

Jim tries to move away from the diagnostic, whimpering faintly. Obviously he's in pain. I curse and take the diagnostic from Nurse McCall. "Dix, get me a hypospray, sixty ccs of melenex!" 

Nurse McCall looks startled. Ordinarily, I wouldn't blame her. Melenex works quickly, but it only puts patients out for about five minutes per ten ccs. "Melenex? But--" 

"He's allergic to just about everything else," I say. "Get me the melenex." 

She goes without another word. I reach for Jim with the diagnostic again. He tries to move away from it. Automatically, I put a hand on his forehead, gently restraining him while I work. Surprisingly, he relaxes. 

The diagnostic machine hums as I run it over Jim's face. Nurse Chapel studies it as Nurse McCall comes back with the hypospray. I jab it against Jim's neck, depress the button, and count silently. As I reach ten, he goes limp. 

"Unbelievable," Nurse Chapel murmurs. 

"Melenex works fast," I tell her. "What have we got?" 

She turns the screen towards me. I study it rapidly, then start firing off orders. "Dix, set up an IV, let's get some fluids into him--he's severely dehydrated. Christine, help me strip him off, he's lost a lot of blood and I'm not sure where." 

Nurse Chapel helps me without another word. His shirt and pants are mostly in rags, so rather than try to pull it over his head we just rip the clothes off. He has a few scratches on his torso, legs, and upper arms, but they're all superficial. The three of us turn him over, and when I see his back, I curse. Something gouged a long, deep cut across the width of his lower back, obviously an old one. The edges are jagged, and parts of it are green. Parts of his shirt must have stuck to it, because it is seeping blood again. 

"This is gonna take a lot," I say. "Chapel, get me--" 

She's already scuttled off. I breathe a quick thank-you to God for competent nurses and take a couple steps towards my workstation to get what I need to clean it. 

"Is he going to be all right?" 

I don't turn around, but Nurse McCall does, looking uncomfortable and surprised. "Uh, sir, you're not really supposed to--" 

"Dix! IV!" I bark. To her credit, she immediately goes back to what she was doing. I glance at the door as I rush back to Jim's side. Hackett stands there anxiously, Pike hovering over his shoulder. I keep working as I say, "He's dehydrated, sunburnt, probably malnourished, and this cut is definitely infected. There might be other problems, too, but I won't know for sure until I've dealt with those. But he should be all right." 

"We'll let you work, then," Hackett says. 

I don't know if they leave or not, because I'm too busy bending over Jim's back. "Sponge," I tell Nurse McCall. 

It takes us three hours (and five more hypos of melenex) to get him cleaned up and stabilized, but at last I'm sure he's going to pull through all right. As I wash my hands, the door opens and Phlox comes in. He looks tired and nods towards the bed. "How is he?" 

"Stable," I answer, drying my hands. "He'll be just fine. It looked a lot worse than it was." 

"Good to hear." Phlox studies me. "You can clock out, McCoy. You've done well." 

"Yes, sir." 

I clock out, change into my civvies, and duck into Fisher's room. He's just finishing his dinner, and he looks up when I come in. "Hey, Doc. What was all the kerfuffle about?" 

"Jim's back. He was...he was pretty banged up." 

"Is he gonna be okay?" 

"Yeah, we got him cleaned up all right. He'll make it." 

Fisher exhales. "Thank God. Could I, uh, can I see him when he wakes up?" 

"I don't see why not. I'll let you know." 

"Thanks, Doc. See you later." 

I don't ask how he knows where I'm going. I guess it's fairly obvious. 

I go back to Jim's room and sit down next to his bed. I want to wake him up and shake him for putting me through this, to yell at him for being an idiot...to hug him until he can't breathe. I still can't believe he's here. He's _alive_. 

I'm not sure how much later it is that he stirs and groans, and his eyelids flutter open. "Bones," he croaks hoarsely. 

"I'm right here, Jim," I say, a lump in my throat as I cover his hand with mine. 

He turns to look at me and smiles. "Do you know," he says conversationally, "how hard it is to fix a communicator when your only tool is a cactus?" 

I raise an eyebrow. "I don't imagine it would be easy." 

"It's fucking impossible is what it is," he replies. "If I hadn't found the bones of a small but extremely dead animal, I'd still be out there." 

"You idiot," I say affectionately. 

He laughs weakly, then winces and tries to put a hand to his neck. I catch his hand. "Easy, Jim," I warn. 

He grimaces. "How many times did you hypo me?" 

"Six," I answer. "You wouldn't stay still." 

"How's Fleming?" 

"Haven't asked. I only just finished patching you up." 

Jim looks up at me, all traces of levity fading from his face. "Where are my pants?" 

"What's left of them are in a bin over there," I say, pointing. "Didn't get around to throwing them away yet." 

"Before you do..." Jim takes a breath. "Left pocket. Would you--what's in there--can I have it?" 

I'm a little confused, I admit, but I get up and open the bin. I find what's left of the pockets and rummage through them. One is empty. The other has a small black leather object--a wallet? 

"This what you wanted, Jim?" I ask, handing it to him. 

Jim takes it and smiles. "Yeah," he says softly. "This is what got me through that desert." 

"A compass?" I guess. 

"No." He opens it and holds it out to me. 

My breath catches in my throat. He's holding a photograph, depicting the two of us in our cadet reds, arms around each other's shoulders, grinning as we stand in front of the massive Starfleet Academy sign. Our first day as cadets. The whole world ahead of us. Never dreaming where we'd be in just a year's time. 

"What do you mean, this got you through the desert?" I ask, with some difficulty. 

Jim stares at the photograph. "No food, no water," he says, "a massive cut across my back, and I had to carry Fleming for two weeks. I needed something to--to hang on to. Something to remind me...what I was doing this for. What I have to come back to." He looks up at me, tears in his eyes. "I wouldn't have made it if I hadn't had this to hold on to." 

"Shh," I say soothingly. I stroke his hair back gently without thinking. "It's okay, Jim. You're back now. You're safe." 

"Of course I'm safe." Jim's voice sinks to a whisper. He smiles at me, then closes his eyes. "You're here." 

Later, we'll find out that despite coming back late, and despite his injuries, Jim gets the highest grade in the class. Fleming will be okay, although he's going to lose at least one semester while he recovers from his own severe illness. Fisher will come to thank Jim personally, they'll become friends, and someday, he'll repay Jim by saving, if not his life, then his Starfleet career. 

But for now, it's just the two of us, and the knowledge that he's safe. We're _both_ safe. 

Because we're together. 

And, in the end, that's really all that matters.


End file.
